


Depression is Three Times More Common

by VoiceOfNurse



Series: Que Sera [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Caretaking, Crying, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanfiction, Non-Sexual Age Play, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sickfic, Team as Family, Vomiting, alexander pierce should have died slower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:23:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5578348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoiceOfNurse/pseuds/VoiceOfNurse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The internet said that one in four American households included someone who suffered from migraines. The last thing Bucky wanted was to be a part of that statistic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Little Interludes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705493) by [Lauralot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). 



> I've been meaning to write this one for a while, but I heard that Lauralot isn't feeling well at the moment, and thought a bit of Bucky getting fussed over might make her feel better. 
> 
> Also, thank you to the lovely pistalrose for providing motivation and nurse-type discussion.
> 
> (Minor maintenance has been done to the first chapter, before posting of the second, because the first few paragraphs made me cringe)

 

The first time, Bucky didn’t even notice it starting. The day they brought Clint home from the hospital was hectic all round, with a great deal of preparation and more than one argument over what was _too much, Tony, really, Clint won’t need that_ , so it wasn’t really a surprise that he didn’t realise. 

Clint had recovered rapidly, which was probably good for everyone’s nerves, not least his own. He’d well and truly had enough of the hospital almost as soon as he was awake, and it hadn’t been easy for anyone involved, keeping him there until he was actually well enough to come home. Once he arrived, however, he seemed perfectly happy to accept all of the care and attention that he’d been refusing previously. Steve had helped settle him on the couch with the television remote and a blanket, and from then on everyone in the tower seemed to gravitate around him. 

Natasha had spent most of the morning acting as Clint’s pillow, only elbowing him gently when he made increasingly ridiculous demands about blankets and backrubs and various snacks. She also made sure that he got everything he was asking for, which Bucky was pretty sure meant Natasha had been worried about him. She drew the line when he started asking for a new couch, though, but that might have been because Tony had already bought the one Clint was lying on specifically for that purpose.

Tony had also provided the luridly purple Hawkeye branded blanket and pajamas, which had been something of a gag gift, delivered to the hospital before Clint was even fully awake. It wasn’t all that surprising that Clint had requested to wear them home, then asked Steve to carry him up from the car (and as a result, past Tony), in them. The look on Tony’s face had made Steve laugh, which Bucky totally approved of. 

“You don’t have to keep watching that, I don’t mind.” Bucky had settled himself on the floor with a collection of books and his bears at the beginning of the day, because despite being much better Clint still wasn’t at full strength and needed someone to protect him. Clint had put on a Disney playlist shortly afterwards and had been working his way through it ever since.

Rather than turning off the television, or changing to something more adult, Clint just shrugged and grinned. “Naw, man, we’re good. I’m still feeling kinda fuzzy. Don’t think I’m really up for anything more complicated than Disney.”

Bucky had barely managed to stay in bed for the amount of time he was supposed to while Clint was in the hospital, let alone sleep, and was feeling more than a little fuzzy himself. He could understand not wanting to watch anything noisy or complicated. “Do you need anything?”

“Maybe a drink? Coffee?”

“He can have milk. Or juice. No coffee.” Bucky was already on his feet when Natasha appeared, as if by magic, in the doorway. Her arms were folded and there was one of her more dangerous smiles in place, which caused Clint to groan theatrically.

“Aww, Nat! Come on, they let me have coffee in the hospital!”

“They let you have _decaf_ in the hospital, and you were too out of it to notice the difference. You’re not having coffee. Bruce has a nice selection of herbal teas, though…”

The indignant, half disgusted shriek Clint made in response shouldn’t have been enough to make Bucky crash into Natasha; he wasn’t that distracted, but one second Bucky was half looking over his shoulder to see what Clint was doing, and the next he and Natasha were tangled together in a messy pile on the floor. For a second, everything was frozen in shocked silence, before Bucky started to stammer apologies and Clint fell about laughing.

“Sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t see you there- Did I hurt you? I didn’t meat to-!”  

“Oh my God Nat your _face_!”

“Hey,” Tasha’s hands were on Bucky’s shoulders before he could work himself up any further, her grinning face inches from his own. “I’m fine, silly. Even your big body isn’t enough to squash me.” She leaned around a little bit and stuck her tongue out at Clint, who had yet to regain control of himself. “If Clint had sat on me I’d probably be flat as a pancake.”

“Oi! I’m not fat, it’s all muscle!” Clint squawked, expertly tossing a pillow that sailed over Bucky and only avoided smacking Natasha in the face because she caught it and threw it back, barely even looking in his direction as she allowed Bucky to help her to her feet.

Tasha’s expression was downright devious. She brushed herself off and snatched up Bucky’s hand, tugging him towards the door before expertly delivering her parting shot. “I never said anything about you being _fat_ , Clint. You brought that up all on your own. Come on, Bucky, we’ll get him water if he’s worried about his weight.”

 

~*~

 

By the time they made it into the kitchen, Bucky felt a little bit less mortified about knocking Natasha over, but only because she seemed to find it so funny. Tony was already there, almost certainly more than half asleep as he alternately poked at his Starkphone and a bowl of blueberries. As soon as she caught sight of him, Natasha launched into a detailed explanation of why Clint was fat, which seemed to wake him up a bit, which left Bucky to select a glass and fill it with water.

He hadn’t given it any thought before, but just seeing the water made Bucky ridiculously thirsty. He wasn’t really supposed to drink too much before going to sleep, and it was late enough in the evening that he’d been expecting Steve to turn up to shepherd him off to his bedroom for over an hour already, but he was too thirsty to just ignore it and hope that it would go away. He set Clint’s glass to one side and got one for himself, planning to just take a few sips and be done with it.

But then Tony started saying something interesting about the workshop, and Bucky got so caught up in listening that he’d drained the whole glass before he even realised he’d started drinking it. That made him frown a bit, but the damage was already done and he was _still_ thirsty. He poured another glass and drank that too while he listened to Tony explain something complicated and probably half in binary until Clint got bored and started shouting from the living room.

 

~*~

 

The rest of the evening was surprisingly comfortable. Steve came and joined them shortly after Bucky and Natasha got back to the living room, apparently drawn by Clint’s shouting. Bucky doubted that was the case however, because Steve brought the book they’d been reading for the last few nights with him, but rather than dragging Bucky back to his room, he turned off the television and read quietly until the volume of Clint’s yawning started to impact upon the story. It was only then that he shooed Bucky off towards the bathroom and made a move to help Clint back to his room.

He started another chapter once Bucky was in bed, despite it being almost an hour past the time Bucky’s schedule said he was supposed to be laid down and attempting to sleep. A small part of Bucky was anxious at the deviation of his routine, worried that he’d get into trouble when he saw the doctors later in the week, but Steve just smoothed his hair back and smiled.

“It’s been a difficult week for all of us, and you’ve been doing so well. I don’t think anyone’s going to mind you having an extra chapter, and it’ll help you sleep.” Steve’s expression was very kind and just a little knowing; he seemed to have some sort of sixth sense for when Bucky hadn’t been sleeping, these days.

“I’m not five right now. You don’t have to look after me.” Bucky wasn’t exactly complaining, but Steve had had the same difficult week that they all had, and was starting to look as tired as Bucky felt.

Steve waited until he got to the end of a paragraph before pausing, eyebrows raised. “Are you enjoying the story?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“No buts, then.” Steve shifted just enough to nudge Bucky with his shoulder. “You don’t have to be five to enjoy a story, Buck. Now quiet down, it’s getting to a good part.”

 

~*~

 

It wasn’t a nightmare that woke him, but a very strange and very vivid dream. Typically, his nightmares were constructed from half-remembered experiences; conglomerations of torture and the sheer magnitude of death on his conscience. This was something different. He was half certain that he was awake, or perhaps aware that he was asleep; mired somewhere in a fluctuating sense of self awareness that was distressing in a vague sort of way. He dreamed of space, or perhaps himself in space, but his body was three sizes too large, leaving him with a vivid and disconcerting sense that he’d been plucked out of himself and put into someone else.

Bucky bolted up half in a panic, drenched in a cold sweat despite there having been no nightmare, and promptly threw up all over the covers, all before he was even awake enough to really realise what had happened. He came back to himself what must have been a few minutes later, if the warm wetness filtering down onto him through the covers was any indication, confused and shaking with a persistent throbbing pain behind his left eye.

He’d had nightmares powerful enough to make him sick in the past, but his dream hadn’t been like that. Certainly, it had been vivid and disturbing, apparently to the extent that the word ‘vivid’ kept cycling through his head like an odd mental tick, but he didn’t feel like he was having a panic attack. He felt slow-witted and nauseous, with an undercurrent of muted anxiety apparently unrelated to the vomit gradually soaking into his pajamas, trembling and too hot all at once.

Bucky was still staring stupidly at his lap when Steve all but exploded into the room, bringing with him a shaft of light from the hallway so searingly bright that it caused Bucky to flinch back in an attempt to escape it. The headache, which had been bearable up to that point, intensified exponentially on movement, and Bucky found himself heaving up what little had been left by the first bout of vomiting onto his already ruined sheets.

“Bucky?!” Steve sounded anxious, bordering on terrified. His hands appeared out of nowhere, gently cupping Bucky’s face in an attempt to make eye contact.

“I- Ss, I don’t.” He couldn’t seem to make his mouth do what he wanted, tongue vile tasting and heavy in a threatening pool of saliva. Bucky swallowed, torn between a desperate need for water and the sense that he wasn’t done throwing up yet. He swallowed again, nervous now, already having lost track of what he was trying to say to Steve.

“Okay, alright, let’s get you into the bathroom.” Bucky wanted to tell Steve that there wasn’t any point in taking him to the bathroom, because his sheets were already ruined, and a bitter little part of him (the part that wasn’t still repeating the word ‘vivid’ like a stuck record), resented wearing protection to bed if he was just going to vomit and destroy his covers anyway. Steve, though, for all that he could sometimes read Bucky’s mind, was already gathering him up into his arms.

The change in altitude, coupled with the disorienting sense that his body wasn’t quite the right fit for the space it was occupying set him off heaving again, but Steve had him ducked over the toilet before he could make the mess any worse. There wasn’t very much left to come up, but with his eyes screwed tight against the light it brought with it a strange sense of relief; it seemed to make the throbbing pain in his head diminish, which was unusual, because vomiting was normally a surefire way to _give_ him a headache.

Bucky drifted for a little while after that, and only really became aware of himself again when something warm and wet brushed against his chest. He blinked sluggishly, noting in an abstract sort of way that Steve had dimmed the lights and somehow stripped him naked without him noticing. He watched the gentle sweep of a wet washcloth across his chest, head pillowed on the toilet seat.

“Steve?” There was a large bath towel wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, but it wasn’t doing much to ward off the chill. He felt- off, somehow, in a way that had nothing to do with the headache and the nausea. He didn’t feel like himself, but he didn’t feel like he was five, either. It was- vivid; the only word his mind wanted to supply.

“It’s okay, Buck. We’ll get you cleaned up, no problem. Nothing to worry about. Natasha’s making your bed, and I want you to lay down for a bit, even if you don’t feel like sleeping.” Steve thought he’d had a nightmare, one of the bad ones. Bucky didn’t know what to think; hazy and tired and plagued by the word vivid.

Steve looked worried. Perhaps there had been a nightmare after all; maybe Bucky had been screaming in his sleep. “M’tired. Time is it?”

“About twenty to five.” He’d been asleep for longer than he’d thought. Longer than he normally slept. It was nearly time to get up, but Bucky felt so crushingly tired that the idea of sticking to his schedule made him want to cry. Something must have shown on his face, because a second later Steve’s arms were around him, shifting him very carefully until he was cradled in Steve’s lap.

“Are you still feeling sick?”

Bucky didn’t particularly want to speak, but the idea of nodding or shaking his head brought with it the threat of pain. “Dunno. Maybe.” There couldn’t possibly be anything left in there to throw up, though, and the faint sound of Steve’s heartbeat was already hypnotising him into a daze. Bucky couldn’t even dredge up a sense of embarrassment when he felt Steve tugging on his limbs, carefully coaxing him into a fresh set of pajamas, the snug feel of protection tight against his skin. He couldn’t even remember the other set coming off, though they must have at some point. It was all very- vivid.

He didn’t protest when Steve picked him back up; Steve was very careful this time, slow enough that the shift in position only brought a momentary sense of vertigo. The bedroom, when they reached it, was dark and quiet; a freshly made bed, a faint scent of cleaning products, and no sign of Natasha. Steve laid him on the mattress, supporting his head all the way down, before easing him onto his side and pressing a gentle kiss to his hairline.

“Will you be okay here by yourself for a minute? I want to get you a glass of water, and I’ll bring you a bucket too, just in case.” Steve’s voice was a whisper, just loud enough for Bucky’s enhanced hearing to register.

“Yeah.”

Bucky watched through half-lidded eyes as Steve vanished out of the door, his mind oddly quiet under the thrum of a single repeated thought. He could just make out a hushed conversation, what sounded like Steve and Tony, words like ‘exhausted’ and ‘delayed reaction’ and ‘stress’. Their voices faded away after a moment, and when Steve came back he was alone, a glass of water in one hand, a towel in the other, and a bucket wedged under his arm.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he was all that thirsty anymore, but he took a couple of careful sips when Steve prompted. The nausea had faded, but the headache still flared whenever he moved more than a fraction; he didn’t trust himself to drink more than a mouthful without having to make use of the bucket. Steve seemed to understand, because he didn’t push, putting the glass down so that he could spread the towel out under Bucky’s chin.

“Just in case, okay?”

He could see the sense in Steve’s plan; normally, a set of ruined sheets was more than enough to trigger a panic attack. Right now, Bucky was more worried about having to move if he got vomit all over himself again, so either way the towel was a good idea. Once everything was arranged to his liking, Steve eased himself onto the bed behind Bucky, out of the line of fire should he vomit again, but close enough to be able to reach the bucket if it was needed. Bucky could feel him there; a line of heat against his side, not quite touching, but undeniably present.

Vivid, he thought, as he closed his eyes and let the tide of exhaustion drag him back under.


	2. A Bear Headache

When Bucky drifted out of strange dreams, his room was dark and he didn’t dare move. Even before he was fully awake he was haunted by the threat of pain, unsettling memories of the chair lancing through the back of his mind and chilling him into inaction. Muddied as his mind was by sleep and illness, he thought perhaps that if he stayed very still, was quiet and good, he wouldn’t be punished. 

Of course, his body had never really listened to him, no matter how desperately he wanted it to. As he roused a little more, the pressing need to go to the bathroom became increasingly apparent, along with a hollow sort of nausea that made him feel hungry, but also like he’d throw up if he put anything in his mouth. He tried to ignore it, tried to will it all away until he fell asleep again, but the sensations seemed sharper than they normally were, more difficult to push aside. 

He knew that he couldn’t ignore it. It would start to hurt, and his body tended to take matters into its own hands if he tried to wait, but he was tired, and the threat of pain was there, right on the edge of his awareness… Bucky’s eyes prickled, an errant tear creeping down his face, because it wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to hurt, but he didn’t want to make a mess either; he’d get in trouble, and the bed would need to be changed which would mean moving anyway. 

It was that thought that finally got him moving. He started with his arm, bringing it up to clumsily wipe at his face. Everything felt sensitive, like his skin was on just a little bit too tight and all the nerve endings had been turned up to eleven. Bucky very nearly flinched at the touch of his own fingers. He was already rolled onto his side, and there was a vague memory of Daddy tucking him in some indefinable time earlier. There was a towel wrapped under his chin, thankfully unused, but Bucky snatched at it just in case, suddenly terrified that he’d throw up in the bed again. 

He kept the towel pressed over his mouth as he rolled over, easing himself towards the edge of the bed a fraction at a time. The headache that had near blinded him previously had toned down a little, now more pressure than pain, lingering behind his eyes like a threat. If he moved too quickly, or did anything to upset his already shaken sense of balance, it would come back. His thoughts were drawn to the chair again, his head wrapped in a metal vice, punishing him, and he sobbed a little before he was able to stop himself. 

Bucky Bear was sitting on the end table, watching. He was quiet, still, and Bucky wondered if bears got headaches too. If they felt sick and dizzy and like their skin was on too tight. He thought they probably did. Bucky Bear was a highly trained operative, he could push through the pain to complete his mission, but he didn’t want to talk to Bucky, which probably meant he wasn’t feeling well either. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, head tucked low, towel still pressed over the lower half of his face, Bucky thought that maybe someone had moved the bathroom further away. It certainly didn’t look as close as it normally was, the distance between his bare feet and the dimly lit tile seeming to stretch on for miles and miles. He wasn’t entirely sure that he would be able to walk that far, and for a moment he seriously considered dropping onto his knees and crawling, but he couldn’t remember if he’d been sick on the floor earlier, and if he had he didn’t want to risk getting anything on his pajamas. Daddy and Tasha had already had to clean him up once, much more and they’d realise he was too much effort and leave. 

His whole head felt like it was going to slide off when he stood, like his neck had been turned to wax that was slowly melting in the sun. Bucky was sure for a moment that he was going to fall over, end up face first on the carpet and wailing for his Daddy, but despite feeling like he was going to collapse into a heap his body was surprisingly steady. He took a few deep breaths, whatever detergent had been used on the towel leaving a strange, sweet chemical taste in the back of his mouth, then let go of the wall. 

Bucky’s head swished unpleasantly as he moved, but he needed the bathroom, and Bucky Bear was muttering darkly about being useless, the Asset had been able to keep running while half-starved, exhausted and  _ shot _ , a simple trip to the toilet should not be such a problem. Bucky wanted to tell him that it wasn’t fair, he wasn’t the Asset right now, and the Asset never came out when he was asked to, only when he really, really wasn’t wanted, but Bucky Bear clearly had a bear headache, and would probably shout at him if he talked back.

Once he was safely sat on the toilet, Bucky lowered the towel from his face and spread it carefully over his knees. It probably wouldn’t do him very much good if he actually  _ was  _ sick, but he had a vivid memory of Daddy spreading it under his chin and it was rapidly becoming something of a talisman against the terror of vomiting all over himself. It also had the added benefit of hiding the jumble of pajamas and protection that was hooked around his ankles. He wasn’t feeling quite up to bending down to strip it off and throw it away just yet, afraid that his head would topple right off of his neck if he leaned over. 

There was a large part of Bucky that was very tempted to just stay sat on the toilet until he eventually felt better. It wasn’t very comfortable, though, even with his head resting on the wall and his eyes closed. The headache was starting to creep back in, pressure turning to a steady throb of pain that made him long for the darkness of his bedroom. It got worse when he tried to bend over, so he carefully lifted his leg up instead, hooking the pajamas off and extracting the soiled garment from inside. He could just about reach the bin from where he was sitting, and crammed it down deep, a hidden embarrassment that he would deal with later when he felt better. 

The trip back to bed was actually a bit easier. Bucky was exhausted again, but out of the light his head felt a little better. It was better still once he’d curled himself under the blankets, towel wrapped anxiously around his arm, just in case. Bucky Bear thought he was being silly; there was nothing left inside of him to throw up, but when Bucky reached out to pull the bear into bed Bucky Bear told him to go away. It might just have been the bear headache, but at the same time Bucky Bear did  _ not  _ like the idea of being thrown up on. It was the height of indignity, an operative of his caliber being contaminated with vomit. 

Bucky was exhausted, but he wasn’t actually  _ tired _ , which made no sense at all. He didn’t feel well enough to move, but at the same time he was restless and bored. Time seemed to creep past, marked only by the slow throb of his head and the occasional overwrought tear. It probably hadn’t even been all that long since he’d woken up, but he didn’t want to turn the clock around because the numbers were bright, but it felt like forever, which was probably why he very nearly burst into relieved sobbing when he heard footsteps in the hallway. 

It was Daddy. He knew those footsteps anywhere, and seconds later his suspicions were confirmed by a quiet knock on the door. Bucky had his back to the door, because he’d fallen asleep facing that way before, with Daddy behind him to keep him safe, and the bucket was on the floor that side. He hadn’t felt up to bringing it all the way around to the other side, then bringing himself around with it, but didn’t want to be too far away from it either. 

“Bucky, I’m coming in, okay?” It was probably well past the time when he was meant to be out of bed. At the very least, he was supposed to go and lay down on the sofa if he didn’t want to be active, but his sleep plan was all messed up anyway and he didn’t want to move. He grunted unhappily in the general direction of the door. 

Moments later there was a big hand on the back of his neck, rubbing gently, and Daddy was climbing back into the bed with him. Bucky cracked open an eye, but didn’t roll over. He wanted to curl up in his daddy’s arms and never come back out again, but at the same time he wanted to stay very, very still and hope that the headache went away. He grunted again, trying to infuse the sound with all the upset and confusion that he was feeling. 

“Hey, Bucky. I’ve brought you your pills and a smoothie. Are you feeling up to giving them a go?” Daddy kept his voice down low, but it still felt a bit like he was shouting; Bucky’s ears were as oversensitive as his skin, apparently. He tucked his head a little deeper into the pillow, eyes scrunched closed. He was being rude, but he felt horrible and pills and smoothies made his tummy hurt. 

“No.” He sounded petulant even to his own ears; Bucky couldn’t help but cringe a bit in reaction, but Daddy’s hand just kept rubbing away on the back of his neck, gently enough that it didn’t make Bucky’s skin feel like it was going to peel off, but firm enough to take away a little bit of the tension building there. 

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Which bit feels bad?” Daddy was being incredibly gentle, and Bucky probably didn’t deserve it, but he clung to the sensation all the same. He wanted Daddy to take it all away and make him better. 

Bucky sort of wanted to grunt again, or maybe smother his head under a pillow until he fell asleep, but Daddy already sounded worried. Only a bad boy would worry him  _ more _ . “Head hurts. Feel sick, Daddy.” Talking made him feel worse, but that would take too many words to explain. Daddy seemed to understand, though, because a moment later his hand was sweeping Bucky’s bangs back and pressing against his forehead. The pressure sort of helped. 

There was a frown in Daddy’s voice. “You don’t feel hot. Hell, I don’t even think you can  _ get  _ a fever, but you need to drink something, even if you don’t feel very well. You’re going to get dehydrated.” 

Bucky didn’t really care if he got dehydrated or not. If he didn’t drink anything there wouldn’t be anything to vomit back up, and he probably wouldn’t need to go to the bathroom again for quite a while. He just wanted to be very still and not do anything until his head felt better and he could go back to guarding Clint. “No.” 

The bed shifted when Daddy moved, but it was obvious that he was being careful not to jostle too much. Bucky kept his eyes closed, listening, until Daddy gently touched his cheek. Daddy had come around the bed, and was crouched down in front of Bucky, his face all sad and worried. Bucky closed his eyes again, desperate to block it out; he didn’t want to make anyone sad. “I know you’re feeling sick, and it’s horrible, but you haven’t had anything to eat or drink in a long time, Bucky, and that’s going to start making you feel bad too. Can you try for me, even if it’s just a little bit?” 

Bucky didn’t want to try, he wanted to go back to sleep, but Daddy sounded so earnest, so gentle, like Bucky wasn’t being stubborn and resentful and refusing to look at him. “Do I have to?” he grumbled, already half swayed. 

“I’d never force you, Bucky. If you really, really don’t want to, we’ll leave it a bit, and if you still can’t manage, we’ll talk to Bruce, but I’m worried about you. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this bad, and I’m worried that you’re going to make yourself feel worse if you don’t have something to drink and take your medicine.” Daddy sounded earnest, and reasonable, and it wasn’t really what Bucky wanted to hear at all. A few tears sneaked out from under his eyelids, frustrated and exhausted in equal measure; Daddy wiped them carefully away. 

“I know this is hard for you. The last two weeks have been horrible, and you’ve done so well and been so good, so I understand, okay? I’m not cross. I don’t want you to think I’m angry or disappointed, or that I’m going to be angry with you if you can’t manage it. None of this is your fault.” 

Bucky was pretty sure that everything was his fault; he was difficult and hard to look after and he made his daddy sound like he was hurting inside. He didn’t say anything, though, because it always made it worse. Daddy never believed that any of it was Bucky’s fault. He heaved a sigh, offering up his last scrap of resistance. “Don’t want to be sick again.” 

Daddy’s hand gently stroked through his hair, his fingers working out a tangle on the way down. “I know. I know you’re worried, but I think maybe you’ll feel a bit better if you have something to drink. I can get you some water, and we can give it a try, okay? Just a little bit, and if you get sick the bucket’s right there. There won’t be any mess, I promise.” 

There would be plenty of mess, even if it all went in the bucket, but Bucky didn’t want to be a disappointment; he wanted to try. He wanted his Daddy to be proud of him for a reason, even if it was a stupid one like drinking some water. He nodded his head a fraction, watching through eyes narrowed to tired slits. The smile that split his Daddy’s face was almost worth the threat of getting sick again. 

A plastic tumbler with a straw appeared at his elbow in what had to be record time. Bucky eyed it dubiously, but he sat up a bit anyway. His head did the same horrible sliding thing that it did when he got up before, and the towel was back over his face in an instant. He swallowed anxiously, not even sure if he was feeling sick or not anymore, huffing out a shallow sigh when Daddy’s arms came up and wrapped around his shoulders, steadying him. 

“Are you feeling dizzy?” 

Bucky wasn’t really sure that he  _ was  _ feeling dizzy. He didn’t know how to describe it, instead, he shrugged miserably and pulled the towel up so that it covered his eyes. Daddy didn’t press. Instead, he came and sat on the edge of the bed, easing Bucky up by slow increments until his head was leaning against Daddy’s chest, back supported by a strong arm. “Just try to relax, I’ve got you.”

After a few minutes, Daddy gently extracted Bucky’s face from the towel, though rather than taking it away he settled it across Bucky’s front. He didn’t say anything about it, just smoothed a hand down Bucky’s arm before picking up the cup and offering the straw. “Just a little sip. If that stays down, we can try a little bit more, okay?” 

It wasn’t okay, but Bucky’s mouth was dry and tasted horrible, and the straw was one of the good ones, bright blue and bendy at the top. He took a sip to make Daddy smile, holding it in his mouth for a minute before swallowing. When it didn’t immediately reappear, he took another. The water was room temperature, just this side of warm and not very pleasant, but it didn’t sit chill in his belly and more importantly it seemed set on staying down. 

“Good boy. That’s right, you’re doing so well.” He could hear Daddy’s heartbeat, slow and steady, the way his head was cradled close, and Bucky focussed on that and the low rumble of Daddy’s voice. He took another few sips, not because it made him feel better but because it made Daddy happy. 

He still felt horrible, but he was a good boy, and the simple praise made him feel warm inside. 

 


	3. Menaced by Spoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be just his luck, he decided while pulling on his clothes, if it wasn’t an illness at all; if he’d just developed some new and interesting psychological issue instead.

When Bucky woke up he didn’t immediately open his eyes. He wasn't sure what time it was, or what day, for that matter, but he was warm and comfortable and nothing hurt. In those first few minutes where he wasn’t really aware of what was happening, he stretched, feeling stiff muscles and a strange, bone-deep tiredness. 

Full awareness came slowly. He blinked in the dark, muzzy, but didn’t move. His clock was somewhere, as was his phone, and JARVIS was always on hand to tell him the time, but Bucky found he didn’t want to know that badly. He felt… he didn’t really know how he felt. Groggy, with the very last dregs of a headache swilling around somewhere, but nowhere near as bad as he had before. 

When he finally sat up, he did it slowly, wary of dizziness. None came. His hair was greasy when he ran his hands through it, and he was pretty sure he smelled disgusting, but whatever he’d come down with appeared to be gone. His pills and a bottle of juice were sitting on the side table, guarded by a disapproving looking Bucky Bear, and when the first cautious sip didn’t bring about the return of the nausea, Bucky gulped it down. He still had a bit of a funny taste in his mouth, but the bone-dry, old vomit feeling was gone. 

Bucky Bear suggested a shower, at the same time stressing the importance of getting back to their mission; Clint had been left unattended for an unspecified amount of time, which was totally unacceptable. The other Avengers would be keeping an eye on him, of course, but none of them were as skilled as Bucky Bear. They could always be lulled into a false sense of security. 

With a destination finally in mind, Bucky shuffled to his feet. He was a bit shaky, but he wasn’t sure how much of that had been caused by staying in bed too long and not really having much to eat and drink. He vaguely remembered Bruce explaining his dietary needs to him, with stress on the importance of hydration and blood sugar maintenance. He also remembered Steve fretting about him not drinking… Bucky added breakfast to his mental To-Do list, along with a shower and guarding Clint. Perhaps he could bring Clint breakfast…

The bathroom was bright, and made his vision feel a little strange, but it didn’t bring back the headache, which Bucky counted as a win. A brief glance at the mirror showed that he didn’t look any different than normal, which left him feeling almost cheated. The last time he’d been awake, he’d been near certain that he was dying, but now there was nothing to show for it. He wasn’t even particularly pale; just greasy and sporting more stubble than he normally tolerated. 

Bucky wanted to turn the shower up as hot as it went; scorch the last traces of illness out of his skin and be done with it, but he remembered all too well the last time he’d tried that. It had been back when he was just starting to be able to look after himself, and he hadn’t even realized it was a bad idea until he’d been climbing out of the stall. The cold air had hit him, and his head had suddenly felt three times too big, and the next thing he knew he was sprawled naked on the tiles, Steve’s terrified face looking down at him while Bruce propped his legs up on a chair. 

He was better now, of course. The worst of the medication side effects had been dealt with, and his body was in much better condition than it had been back then. He hadn’t fainted like that in months, but he was still wary of it, especially this soon after feeling unwell. He was already borderline mortified that he’d been sick all over himself, not to mention the hazy memories he had of Steve cleaning him up, he did not need them finding him naked and passed out in the bathroom. Again.

He ended up compromising; setting the shower as hot as he dared, but sitting on the little bath seat that Tony had had delivered after one of Bucky’s more memorable meltdowns over his lack of independence. Bucky hadn’t been keen on using it at first, disliking the idea of being treated like an invalid. In the end, Tony had taken Bucky to his private rooms, where Tony had a very similar stool in his own bathroom, which had taken the wind out of his sails. The stool had stayed. 

The shower really did go a long way to making him feel more human. Bucky made a point of scrubbing his hair on the off chance of stray vomit, and by the time he was done even the lingering headache was gone. All the same, he scrutinized his reflection as he shaved, mildly irate with the electric razor despite knowing full well why a wet shave wasn’t an option. Nothing was amiss; no signs of illness at all. Not for the first time, Bucky had to wonder if it was all in his head. Maybe it was just another shard of crazy that HYDRA had left sticking into his consciousness… 

It would be just his luck, he decided while pulling on his clothes, if it wasn’t an illness at all; if he’d just developed some new and interesting psychological issue instead. Maybe being five just wasn’t enough for his fuck-up of a psyche. Maybe the incontinence, the panic attacks, the  _ everything _ wasn’t enough, and he had to develop this as well. With his physiology, he wasn’t really supposed to get sick. He didn’t catch germs, which probably meant that it really was all in his head. 

Bucky Bear, who had been silently thinking, chose that moment to chip in with a theory. He neither confirmed nor denied that it was all in Bucky’s head, but pointed out that it if it  _ was,  _ then getting rid of it again should be as simple as mind over matter. Bucky wasn’t so sure, because he’d never been able to think himself out of being five, but Bucky Bear just snorted at him. Being five, the bear reminded him, was very different to feeling pain. A skilled operative could manage physical irritations like pain, push them back to complete the mission. 

He probably did have a point, actually. If it happened again, Bucky just needed to push through it, maybe drink more or exercise, and force it to go away. He didn’t look sick, hadn’t felt sick until it had suddenly come on, and it had gone away quickly enough that he was almost certain it wasn’t an actual illness anyway. He was pretty sure Steve had said something about it being a stress reaction, actually… 

Deciding that he needed to stop thinking so much about it for fear of it happening again, Bucky finished putting on his socks and collected Bucky Bear from his perch on the end table. He found his phone half tucked under the bed next to the bucket that he didn’t really want to dwell on, thumbing it on to check the time. It was later than he thought, almost time for supper, which meant his sleep pattern had been completely ruined, and there was a little queue of notifications waiting for him. 

There was a message from Steve saying to call him if he needed anything, which wasn’t really a surprise. Clint had sent a whole set of pictures of himself with the Bearvengers in various poses, though all, Bucky was pleased to note, involved Clint either in bed or on his couch. Crystal had text him a few hours previously, asking if he wanted to get coffee sometime, and he had an email from Maggie. She’d given him her email address while Clint was still in the hospital, and he’d asked her a few questions about what he could bring in without getting into trouble, because his memory had told him flowers but the nurses had said no. 

He checked that one last, curious, and found a few paragraphs wishing Clint well, and a picture of a weird, naked cat wearing a jumper. Bucky read on while heading for the kitchen; apparently Maggie was house-sitting for a friend who liked to dress up her numerous cats in homemade knitted sweaters. Bucky couldn’t tell if Maggie thought it was weird or not. He couldn’t tell if  _ he  _ thought it was weird, but he found himself wondering if Crystal’s cat would like a sweater. He sent her a text to ask her. 

“Hey, you’re up!” Surprisingly, it was Tony, not Steve who Bucky bumped into first. Tony tended to keep odd hours, which was probably why he was slouched in the hallway eating dried blueberries rather than sitting down for an actual meal. “Feeling better?” 

Bucky shrugged awkwardly, stuffing his phone into his pocket so he could twist a curl of damp hair around his fingers. Tony seemed genuine, but Bucky couldn’t help the flush of embarrassment. It was all in his head; he didn’t need sympathy. They should all be focusing on Clint, who was legitimately sick. “Yeah, I guess so. You seen Steve?” 

Tony smiled, maybe a little sad, as if he'd guessed what Bucky was thinking. “Yeah. He’s in the kitchen. He was sitting with you most of the day, you know, but you were out for the count. Bruce managed to lure him away with that scary recipe book of his. They’re cooking up something that’s supposed to be good for whatever it is that you had. I’d tell you what it was, but I got menaced with a spoon when I went in to check they weren’t setting anything on fire in there.” 

“Were they?” Bruce was a good cook, despite most of what he made being too rich for Bucky to actually eat. He always made sure to dish Bucky up a plate of rice or pasta with a mild sauce when he cooked for the team, though, so he didn’t feel isolated at the dinner table. He couldn’t imagine Bruce setting something on fire that wasn’t supposed to be on fire; that was more Tony’s area of expertise. 

“Not that I could see, but whatever it was smelled incredible. Not that they let me try any of it, and here I thought Bruce was my friend…” Tony’s smile was rapidly turning devilish; he linked a companionable arm through Bucky’s and used it to steer them towards the kitchen. “But now you’re up they can feed it to you, and Steve’s all-American morals will shrivel up if he leaves me out, which means I get to try some too.” 

Bucky smiled a little despite himself. “So basically you’re just using me so that Steve feeds you.” It was better than the alternative, which was Tony sitting outside his room while he was sleeping, making sure he didn’t throw up all over himself and freak out about it while Steve was busy. Bucky had a sneaking suspicion that Tony had been doing exactly that, but thank God Tony would never admit to anything of the sort. Bucky was embarrassed enough without people taking time out of their days to look after him. 

“I can't be bothered to get takeout, so sue me.” Tony winked, then tugged Bucky along the corridor a little faster. “Now come on, if you get a move on we can drag that ugly armchair that Pepper won’t let me burn over to the table. Clint was moaning that he was hungry; we can sit him in the Ugly Chair, and there’s no way Steve won’t feed  _ him _ , and if he shows up Natasha probably will as well. We’ll make a team dinner out of it, and I can try some of whatever deliciousness they’re cooking without being assaulted by cutlery.” 

The great thing about Tony was that you didn’t really have to listen to him when he started going a mile a minute; he tended to launch into a conversation with himself when left to his own devices, but when you did listen, he really did have the best ideas. They could combine dinner with making Steve happy, and still keep an eye on Clint.

Bucky smiled, and let Tony drag him down the hall. “Okay, I like this plan.” Even Bucky Bear was pleased. 


	4. Eggs and Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are cats in costumes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of filler, in which cats are discussed and breakfast is consumed. Thanks to Loki for rooting out my embarrassing mistakes. Apparently, I can't spell raisin without supervision!

“So, explain to me again how many cats your new nurse friend has?” Tony was sitting with Bucky at the table in the communal kitchen, sunglasses on despite being inside, nursing a cup of coffee while Steve made the three of them breakfast. 

“None. Maggie doesn’t have any pets, they’re her friend’s cats.” Despite the fact that his sleep pattern should have been utterly destroyed by spending most of the previous day in bed, Bucky had actually slept surprisingly well. He was feeling far more positive that whatever nastiness his body had managed to conjure up really had been some awful reaction to stress, which meant so long as Clint didn’t do something stupid that landed him in the ICU again, there wouldn’t be a repeat performance.

Of course, Tony was giving him a funny look, but the man was wearing sunglasses in the kitchen at six in the morning, so he didn’t really have a leg to stand on. “Wait, so the seven thousand cats aren’t even  _ her  _ cats? Who the hell would volunteer to house-sit a fucking cattery…?”

“Not seven thousand. Just ten.” Bucky Bear, who was sat on the table between them osmosing honey, suggested that Tony’s intellect was fueled by coffee, and he clearly hadn’t had enough if he had managed to exaggerate that badly. “I don’t think ten cats can be classed as a cattery.” 

“Like ten is any better! One cat is bad enough; who the hell would want multiples?” Sipping his coffee, Tony pulled a displeased face. “Do you have any idea how much hair the little monsters can produce?” 

Bucky shrugged. He’d never actually had a pet, but Bucky Bear informed him that something that small couldn’t possibly produce as much hair as Tony was suggesting. That didn’t mean that Bucky Bear approved, of course. Lucky was bad enough; they didn’t need to add claws and the propensity to shred things with them to the tower. “Lucky doesn’t put that much hair down, and he’s a lot bigger than a cat.” 

“Oh, he puts down plenty! An army of robot vacuums following that dog about and I still find hair in odd places. And  _ he  _ doesn’t climb on the furniture.” 

_ That’s what he thinks _ . There was a definite smirk in Bucky Bear’s tone; he did love knowing things that other people didn’t, especially Tony, with his intimidating IQ and spy cameras everywhere. Of course, Tony had never been there when Clint had let Lucky up on the couch, but he’d certainly found the hair. 

“I think it gets into the atmosphere. And that’s just one dog! Can you imagine how bad it would get with ten of him running about, climbing all over everything, making nests in the wardrobes and bringing in dead things?” Tony was apparently caught up in some sort of strange rant about cats now, which wasn’t unusual. He was strange before he’d had his third cup of coffee. 

Instead of answering straight away, Bucky went back to the email Maggie had sent him and selected one of the pictures. He slid the phone across the table to Tony. “That one won’t put down any hair.” 

Tony scooped up the phone with a huff, squinting at the screen through his sunglasses, before flinching away and tossing the phone back. “Dear  _ god _ ! What even  _ is  _ that?!”

“It’s a cat. Maggie says she’s called Raisin.” 

“That is in no way a cat. It looks like a scrotum with eyes. Fuck! And why is it wearing a hat?!” Tony’s full-body shudder was rather over-dramatic, as far as Bucky was concerned. Granted, Raisin didn’t look quite like a cat… 

“She’s supposed to look that way, she’s a hairless cat.” Bucky didn’t mention that he’d actually emailed Maggie to check that Raisin didn’t have some sort of horrible disease that made all her fur fall off. Apparently not though; some cats just looked like that. “And she gets cold. So Maggie’s friend makes her outfits.”

Tony shook his head, looking mournfully into his now empty cup. “That really doesn’t explain why it has a hat and a little matching sweater with- are those ugly Christmas patterns, because they sure as hell look like ugly Christmas patterns…” 

Maggie had actually offered to get her friend to teach Bucky to knit. Apparently it was very therapeutic, and a good way to manage anxiety. He hadn’t decided yet, because he wasn’t sure how he felt about meeting someone new, even if Maggie did swear that her friend was the sweetest person she’d ever met, but he suddenly found himself tempted to agree just so he could make Tony an ugly sweater. He’d give it to Tony when he was five, too, because he’d never be able to refuse that way… 

“She dresses up all of her cats. Look. This one looks like a shark.” Bucky turned the phone around again, still plotting the worst possible sweater. Bucky Bear suggested getting some bells and stitching them on, which was diabolically evil and would have the added bonus of making Tony extra festive. And maybe he could make some nice ones for the others. Daddy could have a blue one… 

“Well, that’s a cat wearing a shark costume.” Tony’s flat voice shook Bucky out of his musings. He actually looked like he was trying not to laugh now, which made Bucky smile in turn. “And you say all of them are dressed up like that? Do they have any Avengers styled costumes?” 

“Not in any of the pictures I’ve seen, but I can ask her?” Bucky wasn’t sure if they actually made things like that for pets. Of course, Maggie’s friend made them all herself, but surely knitting a Captain America outfit for a cat had to be pretty difficult. 

Tony chuckled. “You know what, you do that. I want to see Iron Cat now.” 

Bucky Bear wasn’t entirely sure that was a good idea; Iron Bear got into enough trouble on his own, without adding an Iron  _ Cat  _ to the mix. Iron Cat’s claws would probably be some sort of repulsor technology, able to slice through solid steel… no, definitely not a good idea. Cat-tain America, on the other hand, would be a much better idea. 

“I don’t think it’s very nice, to shove a cat into a suit of armour, and it wouldn’t really look right knitted. I guess you could make it out of felt or something, but that wouldn’t be very easy to wash.” 

“I saw a video on the internet of a cat wearing armour. Apparently you can make it with a 3D printer.” Bucky had actually been so engrossed in conversation that he hadn’t noticed Steve reappearing with breakfast. He grinned, accepting a plate of scrambled eggs and his smoothie. 

“Why would anyone want armour for their cat?” He took a sip of the smoothie, trying to be offended at the smiley face Steve had drawn in syrup on the top and failing miserably. “What would be the point? It’s not like cats go into battle or anything…” 

Tony, apparently content now that Steve had provided him with more coffee, snorted. “Oh, I don’t know. I bet I could design something amazing. And I wouldn’t have to use a crappy 3D printer either. JARVIS, remind me to-”

“No, JARVIS, belay that.” Steve looked tired, but he was chuckling a little under his breath, looking at Tony with a cross between fondness and exasperation on his face. “Tony, you are not making Iron Man armour for cats.” 

“ _ I’m afraid I have to agree with Captain Rogers there, Sir. Logistics aside, making functional armour for anything other than a human being would be foolish at best, disastrous at worst. Cats especially are known for their destructive tendencies. Equipping one with repulsor technology would be decidedly unwise. _ ” 

Disgruntled, Tony made a show of waving his fist in the air. “Betrayed by my own AI. J, you’re no fun.”

For a computer, JARVIS could put a great deal of dry humour into his responses. “ _ Unfortunately not, Sir. However, I have only your best interests at heart. _ ” 

“You just don’t want me to have a good time.” Tony finished his coffee and stood up, apparently searching for more. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“You mean aside from letting an animal lose in the tower with the power to blast through walls? An animal that Lucky will inevitably chase…” Rolling his eyes, Steve scooped up some of his eggs onto a piece of toast and folded the whole thing into his mouth. Once he’d chewed and swallowed, he continued. “I don’t think Clint would be very happy if you augmented a cat so it could damage his dog, and Pepper would hear about it.” 

Tony groaned dramatically. “You’re right. Katniss would tattle, and Pepper would pull that face she has, the one she keeps for when I’ve  _ really  _ pissed her off and she’s going to make me suffer. I guess your friend is going to be stuck with ugly Christmas patterned cats after all.” 

“I don’t think she minds.” Bucky had been caught up in conversation, leaving his breakfast untouched, which was probably why Steve leaned over and started cutting it up for him. For a second, he thought about complaining, but it seemed ungrateful after everything he’d put Steve through recently, so he opened his mouth to accept a forkful of eggs and toast instead. 

“Some people are easily pleased.” Tony ruled out further discussion by wandering off in search of the coffee pot. 

Bucky shook his head, mouth opening without much thought to accept more eggs. “Do you think Clint would like it if he had a costume for Lucky?” he asked, once he’d swallowed. Maggie had suggested that dressing up cats made her friend very happy, and Clint could certainly use some cheering up. 

Steve paused to feed himself another piece of toast before nodding. “You know, I think he probably would.” 

 

~*~

 

Captain Ameribear was about to stage a daring rescue, guided as always by Bucky Bear’s keen eye, when they had to pause the game. Iron Bear pouted from under the laundry-basket-turned-impenetrable-fortress, put out that he wasn’t going to be saved right away. Bucky Bear, half way through an epic piece of strategy involving Bear Widow, three elastic bands and a spatula, told him it served him right for getting caught without his armour. 

“Bucky, are you okay?” Daddy was helping Captain Ameribear climb onto the back of the sofa, but he stopped when Bucky stopped narrating their game. 

Bucky rubbed his eyes, which were feeling a bit tired. “Thirsty.” At some point during their game, his mouth had dried right out. His tongue felt disgusting, and it was getting in the way of his Evil Hawkbear voice. 

Daddy was already making his way around the sofa. “How about you help Bucky Bear with his plan while I go get you a drink? We can rescue Iron Bear in a minute.” 

Iron Bear didn’t think that was a good idea; he didn’t like being in prison one bit, and wanted to be rescued straight away. Normally, Bucky would have agreed with him and continued their game, because it always felt wrong to leave a mission unfinished, but he was really  _ really  _ thirsty and it would only take a minute for Daddy to go and get him a drink. 

He nodded, shuffling over to where Bucky Bear was plotting Evil Hawkbear’s inevitable defeat. Apparently, if they stretched a string between the back of the sofa and one of the chairs they could make a zipline. Bucky Bear, being the most daring of the Bearvengers, could then swing down and knock Hawkbear off of The Impenetrable Laundry Prison. Once Evil Hawkbear was taken care of, Captain Ameribear would be able to rescue Iron Bear and they’d all go home and celebrate with bottles of honey. 

First, though, Daddy was back with his drink. Bucky took the tumbler eagerly and drained it in two long swallows. Not really satisfied, he handed it back. The moisture hadn’t made his mouth feel any less dry, and he already wanted more. 

“Wow, you really were thirsty.” Daddy had brought some water for himself, but he tipped his glass into Bucky’s and gave it back. 

Bucky drained the cup again before turning back towards their game. “Evil Hawkbear’s voice dries my mouth out.” He wasn’t really sure that was it, though, because he still felt thirsty even though his belly was sloshing with water. He’d probably feel sick if he had any more to drink. 

“Well, I guess the Bearvengers will just have to defeat him, then, so that he stops using his Dry-Mouth Ray on people.” 

“Mouth Drying Arrows, Daddy. Iron Bear would be the one with the raygun.” Bucky Bear was already hard at work stringing up his zipline, and they were nearly ready to stage their rescue. There wasn’t really much to tie the string to, unfortunately, without damaging the sofas, but Bucky made do by wrapping the ends around his shoes and shoving them under the cushions. 

“How silly of me.” Daddy was ready with Captain Ameribear, waiting for their signal while Bucky helped Bucky Bear climb onto the zipwire. “Of course Evil Hawkbear has evil arrows.” 

“Maybe he stole a raygun from Iron Bear… he does have him prisoner.” Bucky Bear shot down the wire like a bullet, his paws wrapped around the spatula as he used it to slide at high speed towards the unsuspecting Evil Hawkbear. “He probably wants Iron Bear to build rayguns for him.” 

Captain Ameribear, team player that he was, jumped out from his hiding place to distract Evil Hawkbear, shield up to deflect a hail of arrows. “Well, we definitely need to stop him, then. Iron Bear wouldn’t want to do anything like that.” 

With his adversary looking the other way, Bucky Bear caught Evil Hawkbear unawares; they tumbled off of the basket together in a tangle of fur and claws. Bucky Bear was a skilled soldier, of course, Evil Hawkbear was no match for him at all. The other Bearvengers knew this, which was why they all converged on the prison, trusting Bucky Bear to take down their enemy. Bear Widow had Iron Bear’s armour with her, and passed the gauntlets through the bars to him so that he could start burning his way out. 

Iron Bear was just climbing out of the prison, scowling at Evil Hawkbear, now in handcuffs and being lead away by the triumphant Bucky Bear, when the sun caught his armour. Bucky squinted, shifting just far enough that the light wasn’t right in his eyes anymore, but the glimmer seemed to follow him. 

He rubbed his eye with the back of his hand, causing sparkles to well up and fade, but the little speck stayed exactly where it was. Blinking didn’t get rid of it, so Bucky shuffled a bit further out of the sun, drawing himself back into the beginnings of the Bearvengers celebration. 

Hawkbear stopped playing Evil Hawkbear so that he could join the party; Bucky didn’t want him to feel left out, and he and Iron Bear were already discussing turning arrows into rayguns by the time Daddy got out the honey. The overturned laundry basket was repurposed as a table to line the jars and bottles up while the Bearvengers organised themselves. 

Bear Widow was taking her place at the table when Bucky started to realise that something was really wrong. The little sparkle, started off by Iron Bear’s armour, was growing by the second into something huge and terrifying. He blinked again, hoping that it would vanish, but when he opened his eyes again it was bigger than ever, crawling across his vision and an alarming rate. 

Frightened, he glanced behind him, looking for Daddy to help, which was when he realised just how bad it really was. 

“Daddy… I can’t see!” 


	5. Bear With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony is the voice of reason, and it doesn't suit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the lovely OMOWatcher for rooting out my mistakes, and killing the semi-colons that always try to infiltrate my writing.

“Bucky, I need you to look at me.”

“I can’t see!”

“You just need to let me look, okay? Please, don’t fight me.”

Daddy’s voice was firm, trying to be calm and failing, which just caused Bucky’s panic to ratchet up even more. He couldn’t see; the tiny sparkle that had started in the middle of his vision was now eclipsing a wide hemisphere of his sight. No matter how much he blinked and pawed at his eyes, the flashes only seemed to get worse, rather than better. He could see them even when his lids were screwed shut.

Steve- Daddy- Steve’s hands landed on his face, prying Bucky’s fingers up and away, probably in an attempt to look at his eyes. He knew it was Steve- knew it was Daddy, knew it was _safe_ , but the touch triggered a violent surge of alarm all the same. He didn’t need to see to fight; the Asset had been trained in the dark, blindfolded, half-starved and probably dying, but the raw fear of being trapped in a situation while disabled was impossible to ignore.

He hissed and jerked back reflexively, kicking out at the person who had invaded his personal space with both feet and scrambling frantically backwards when he was released with a grunt of surprise. Disorientated by the sparkling that had taken over his eyesight, he stumbled, shoulder catching on the edge of something hard. The couch, his mind supplied, already darting through potential weapons he could make from the furniture. Shocked though his opponent had been by the kick, they’d be be back on the attack in a moment, he knew.

He spun a bit, avoiding the couch for the moment, but before he could get to his feet something caught him around the neck. Immediately, he assumed a ligature and fought his way free; the cord didn’t have any real torque behind it, however, but something heavy thumped loose as he thrashed at it. _Shoes_ , a faraway part of him reasoned. _For the zipline._

By the time he’d tripped over a stray shoe and battled his way out of the string, he was hyperventilating and crying. He couldn’t defend himself, he wasn’t _safe_ , and someone in the room was shouting. The addition of an agitated, anxious voice had him crawling into the first small space he could find with flickering vision and clumsy fingers.

Confined on all sides by solid surfaces, head tucked low and arms raised to defend himself, a little of the fear settled. He was panting through bared teeth, hot trails of blood running across the side of his face where his metal fingers had dug too hard into the delicate flesh beside his eye. It hurt, in a distant, detached sort of way that was pushed low on his list of priorities by hypervigilance.

There were other people in the room, he realised, mind slowly clearing despite his vision remaining stubbornly obscured. He could hear hushed, worried voices; all familiar.

 _Daddy_.

It took a long time for his head to clear enough to recognise what was happening, by which point his breathing had slowed somewhat. He was shaking; a fine tremor that he couldn’t seem to stop no matter how much he tensed his muscles, and something wet and unpleasant was seeping across his lower body.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Just listen to my voice. I’m not a threat to you, I won’t hurt you. I just want to help.” The voice was calm, perfectly so, and close at hand. Bucky lifted his head, expecting to see Bruce but getting a blotch of fuzzy zigzag flashes instead. He snapped his eyes closed again, groaning in distress.

“That’s right, come on now.” Clearly, Bruce had sensed the change in his level of awareness, because he sounded even closer than before. Gentle fingers brushed against the back of his wrist, and Bucky turned his hand over, gripping at them frantically.

“Bruce- Bruce- help- can’t see.” It was difficult to talk; his breathlessness hadn’t improved as much as he’d thought, leaving his speech fragmented.

Bruce just squeezed back, despite his fingers probably being crushed in Bucky’s terrified grasp. “I know. But it’s going to be alright. I’m going to help you. But I need you to come out from under there and let me have a look.” He sounded so reasonable, so perfectly serene, that it was difficult to refuse.

A sizable part of Bucky was clamoring for him to stay exactly where he was; find a weapon and hole up until he was functional again, but the rest of him was scared, wet and needed someone to help him. It was easier with Bruce there, because nothing could hurt the Hulk. Nothing that wanted to do Bucky harm would get past him, either.

Painfully slowly, Bucky crawled out of the tiny nook he had secreted himself inside and flopped into Bruce’s waiting arms. He was wet and disgusting, streaked with snot and worse things, but Bruce didn’t seem to mind. He just got his arms around Bucky’s chest and helped drag him out.

He’d been under the coffee table, he realised, blinking dazedly. His eyes felt like they were tingling in time with the sparkles, making him anxious to rub at them. When he raised his hand, however, careful fingers guided it back down again. “No, don’t touch it. You’ve hurt yourself.”

“I didn’t- didn’t mean to. Wasn’t on purpose. Itches.”

There were fingers on his face again, clinical, calloused; Bruce. “I just need to see, okay? I need to see if there’s anything wrong. I’m going to have a look at your eyes.”

It was hard to keep his eyes open; the strange sensation and the alarming lack of vision made him want to clench them shut, but Bruce was calm and patient, guiding his head up and stroking a finger along his eyebrow to help him relax.

There was a flash of light, and the blurred impression of brown eyes closed to his own. Bucky flinched a little, but let Bruce look.

“There, there, all done. Bucky, I can’t see anything physically wrong with your eyes. I’m going to need you to talk to me, okay, and tell me what’s happening.” Bucky didn’t want to tell Bruce anything; he wanted Bruce to fix it. He shook his head, hands twisting anxiously at his clothing. It was wet, he realised with a flush of shame, and he didn’t even know when it had happened.

“Bucky?” Daddy’s voice. He sounded heartbroken, so worried, and Bucky was reaching out for him in an instant. Within seconds, he’d been scooped up, blood, wet clothing and all, and cocooned in his Daddy’s arms. Bucky sobbed in distress and relief, burying his face in Daddy’s warm chest.

Daddy was clutching him just a little too tight, but it helped; nobody would get him with those strong arms wrapped around him. Bucky closed his eyes again, though it didn’t do anything to stop the sparkles, and settled his head against Daddy’s chest. The heartbeat under his ear was fast and strong.

“Can you tell me what you’re feeling, buddy?” Daddy rocked them gently from side to side, the movement calming. Bucky forced himself to nod.

He didn’t really know how he was feeling, other than wrung out and scared. Wet. Embarrassed. Faintly sick. “Can’t see.”

“Can you describe it to me, Bucky? What’s happening with your vision?” Fingers on his wrist; Bruce again, and now that he was calmer Bucky could make out other voices. Natasha and Tony, hushed and urgent, in some form of conversation a little way away.

He swallowed, trying to focus on what Bruce was asking instead of the rising tide of fear and the danger therein. “I- there was a spot. It was little, like a flash. But now it’s everywhere. I can’t see past it. Can’t see through it! All I can see are sparkles!” Bucky’s voice was rising despite himself, becoming shrill and panicked. One of Daddy’s hands came up, gripping gently at his hair; grounding.

“That’s good, Bucky, it’s so good that you’re able to tell me this. It’s very helpful.” Bucky didn’t know how Bruce was able to sound so patient when even Daddy was thrumming with suppressed emotion, but it helped. He latched onto Bruce’s steady presence in an attempt to balance himself.

Bruce gave him a few seconds, letting him settle, before continuing. “Do you have any pain, Bucky? Any funny feelings anywhere?”

It was difficult to focus on his body. His mind wanted to fixate on the visual disturbance to the exclusion of all else, but Bruce was asking, Bruce needed to know, and Daddy was shushing him softly, still rocking them. “I- no. I don’t know.”

“That’s alright, don’t worry. Just try to stay calm. I’m going to touch your arms and legs now, just to make sure they’re doing what they should be.” Despite how useless Bucky was being, Bruce sounded encouraging, as if Bucky was actually making this easy for him.

Fingers landed on his flesh arm, untangling his fingers from the fabric they were clenched around. At Bruce’s request, he made a fist, and moved his arm up and down, receiving praise for every step. Like he was doing something worthy of it rather than being a terrible burden.

“Can you show me your teeth now? Give me a really big smile.”

Bucky didn’t much feel like smiling; he was starting to feel sick, overstimulated and rapidly losing the ability to cope with everything that was happening. He could feel himself shutting down, turning inwards and away from himself all at once. All the same, he bared his teeth for Bruce to look at before twisting himself around to hide against Daddy.

There were more questions after that, both gentle and insistent, but it was all too much. Bucky couldn’t respond; didn’t open his eyes. There was worry in the voices around him, and someone shook him gently to try and get his attention, but Bucky just couldn’t. He’d exhausted his capacity to deal with what was happening, positive that one more little thing would cause him to shatter into a million hysterical pieces.

“Look, I know this is far from ideal, but we need to take him to the hospital. I’m not a medical doctor; I can’t tell you definitively what’s going on here. He needs a real doctor.” Bruce. The words filtered in slowly, probably half way through a conversation. Bucky listened without really taking any of it in.

Oddly, it was Tony who answered; Bucky had forgotten he was in the room. “What _might_ it be? We need a ballpark here, Bruce, some idea of what sort of doctors I need to fly in.”

“It could be a seizure.” Bucky had those, sometimes. He didn’t ever remember them, but he sometimes woke up in odd places, feeling bruised and wrung out and needing Daddy to hold him until the badness went away. He knew about them, had been told about them, and was on medication to stop them happening. That was one of the pills that made him sick, at the beginning.

“It didn’t look like one of his seizures. He’s never had anything like this before.” Daddy was trying to sound calm, but it wasn’t working. Bucky moaned a little at the thread of panic he could hear. If Daddy was scared, something must be really wrong.

Bruce sighed, a heavy sort of sound that he normally reserved for times of great strife. “There can be different types, but I’ll agree that it’s not as likely as some other things. Which is why we need to get him to a hospital. He needs a CT scan.”

“Natasha’s already prepping the jet, we can be in the air in five minutes, but I need to know what you’re thinking, Bruce.” Bucky could almost picture Tony pinching the bridge of his nose from the tone of his voice.

Bruce sighed again. “It could be something simple, some problem with his eyes. Hell, it could be related to his anxiety, that’s entirely possible, but Tony, I can’t rule out that this isn’t a stroke, or something equally serious. Bucky’s medical history is- it’s insane. The things that have been done to his brain would kill a normal person, and there’s no way for us to know that something hasn’t gone really wrong. He needs examining by a real neurologist.”

“Or it could be something not awful. Let’s not jump to conclusions here, Bruce. It might just be a migraine; those feel pretty fucking awful, but they go away again. We could wait a bit, see if it settles.” It was unusual, to hear Tony trying to be the voice of reason. Bucky wasn’t sure that it suited him.

Bruce wasn’t going to be deterred, though. “Are you really willing to risk Bucky’s health on a hunch, though? What if it’s _not_ something that simple. If it’s something more serious, it could very well be time sensitive.”

Their conversation was quiet, further away than it had been; Bruce and Tony were probably trying to be discreet. Bucky could still hear them, though. Daddy probably could as well, because his breathing hitched suddenly and he stiffened for a moment, as if in pain. Bucky wanted to comfort him, or at the very least try to process what was being said about him over his head, but there was nothing left inside him to give. He was wrung out, both physically and emotionally, too overwhelmed to deal with what was happening anymore. The most he managed was to raise his flesh hand to clutch at the back of Daddy’s shirt.

“Shit. Right. I’m going to make some calls. Steve, can you get him to the jet?” Tony was all-business all of a sudden, voice sharp like a razor. “Natasha should probably stay here with Clint, actually… Bruce, you good to come, or do we need to Code Green you out of this one?”

The world moved. Daddy’s arms tightened as he stood, clutching Bucky to his chest. It can’t have been comfortable; there was urine drying between them from where Bucky’s wet legs were clenched around his Daddy’s hips, and his metal hand was clutching hard. Daddy didn’t complain, though, he just started walking.

Somewhere in front of them, Bruce huffed out another sigh. “I don’t really have much of a choice here. The Other Guy is going to be put out either way, and you’re going to need me at the hospital. Just, Tony, we’re going to need precautions, in case something goes wrong.”

They were already moving, Daddy’s long legs eating up the space between the living room and the helipad. “Bucky needs medical attention, that’s all that matters right now.” Daddy’s voice was strained, though it was difficult to tell if exertion or stress was the cause. Probably both, Bucky reasoned, tucking his head a little further under Daddy’s chin and squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as they would go. The tingling lights were still there, all across both eyes now, impossible to blot out. It was like his head was seeing them, rather than his eyes, and the sensation was making him nauseous.

He must have zoned out for a few minutes, because the next thing Bucky was really aware of was being set down in the jet, spread out on the cot they used when someone was sick or injured. He cried a little at the change, eyes snapping open to reveal a strange mixture of distorted images and flashes, before the light hurt and he was forced to close them again.

“It’s going to be fine, Bucky, I’m right here. Daddy’s right here, and here’s Bucky Bear; we didn’t forget him. You hold onto him while I get you strapped in.” It almost sounded like Daddy was babbling; Bucky wanted more than anything to reach up and give him a hug and tell him everything was fine. It wasn’t fine, though, and his arms were now curled around Bucky Bear.

He gave Bucky Bear an anxious squeeze as Daddy pulled the straps down around him. The engine was already alive, causing the cot to vibrate ever so slightly, and Bucky trembled with it. He felt ill and awful, still in damp clothes with blood drying down the side of his face. Every time he moved the muscles of his face, the torn skin beside his eye twinged and the crust of congealed blood pulled unpleasantly.

Daddy seemed to read his mind, then, or at the very least his expression. “I know you feel horrible, buddy, but we can get you cleaned up once the doctor’s had a look at you. We can’t waste any time, not when it might mean you getting more sick.”

Bucky didn’t want to get any worse than he already was; he didn’t think things _could_ get any worse, but Daddy sounded so reasonable and so scared. He bit back another unhappy whine and nodded his head, acknowledging that he’d have to stay wet and disgusting until the doctor had seen him.

“Don’t want a doctor,” he groaned, head turning towards Daddy, pressing as close as he could get with the safety belts coiled around him. Daddy helped, leaning most of his upper body across Bucky in the best hug they could manage with Bucky strapped to the cot. Doctors meant tests, and bad things happening. It meant hurt and touching that he didn’t want. It meant losing control. Danger. Fear.

“I know. I know you don’t want any more.” Daddy probably did. He was probably the only person in the world that actually understood, though Bucky’s hazy mind couldn’t settle on why that was right at the moment. “But we need to get you well. Can you bear with us, just for a little while, just so we can get you better?”

Clint had been in the hospital not so long ago. If Bucky had been thinking clearly, he would probably identified that as the start of it all. As it was, though, he only managed to focus on the fact that Clint had been there, and it had been awful. Bucky wanted very badly to shake his head, tell Daddy no, he couldn’t hang in there, didn’t want any doctors poking at him. It was only the knowledge that it would break Daddy’s heart that allowed him to nod his head a fraction.

“‘Kay.” His voice didn’t sound very much like his voice; wrecked and fragile, tiny and far away. Bucky swallowed, tried to dredge up more words, but ultimately failed. He couldn’t tell Daddy about how scared he was, how he didn’t want to be hurt by doctors, how he just wanted to go back home and have Daddy read to him until he felt better.

The most he could manage was to free a hand from Bucky Bear’s soft fur and reach out. His fingers were met at once, curled safely between Daddy’s strong hands, and Bucky tried to relax as the jet lifted off into the air.

He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something awful was about to happen, but at least he had Daddy and Bucky Bear there with him to keep him safe.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is growing longer than I ever anticipated! Bucky is so fun to play with though, I just can't seem to stop. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for the comments and kudos; I love to hear what you think of my work.


	6. Count To Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ER is traumatic for everyone involved, and Maggie saves the day (sort of).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the lovely OMOWatcher for picking out my spelling and grammar errors.

Despite his mind being about as blurry as his vision, by the time they touched down Bucky was sobbing, overrun with anxiety and the threat of doctors. It must have been uncomfortable, but Daddy hadn’t shifted from his position draped across Bucky’s chest, stroking gentle fingers through his hair and telling him how it would all be okay once they got there. 

Bucky didn’t feel like anything would ever be okay again. His head was starting to hurt. It was only a little niggle, half hidden behind a wash of panic and strangling dread, and he still couldn’t see. He clutched at Daddy with every bit of strength he could find, oblivious to the bruises he was leaving, trying to tell him how bad everything suddenly was. The words wouldn’t come; they never did, when he was scared and small, but this time was worse than the others, because he wanted so badly to find a way to tell them to take him back home again. 

Even if he was dying, even if something awful was wrong with him like Bruce suspected, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. He didn’t recall the first few months after he got away from HYDRA with any real clarity, but there had been scans and tests and medication; procedures that had seemed more invasive than anything HYDRA had ever done, simply because they had given him the frail illusion of choice. As though he could have said no and been listened to. 

Bucky was so caught up in imagining all the terrible things that were about to happen to him that he didn’t immediately notice that the jet had stopped moving. He didn’t notice the rapid, hushed conversation between Bruce and Tony, or the sudden rush of cool air as the door swung up. What he did notice, fast and hard like a slap in the face, was when a stranger stepped inside. 

Suddenly alert, tensed against Daddy’s strong arms and the reinforced straps that were holding him down, Bucky opened his eyes as wide as they would go, head tipped to the side to listen to the unfamiliar body moving in his space. His vision was a nauseating rush of bright colours and flashes, but he could see enough. The edges of his sight were blurred out into hazy nothingness, but the centre had cleared adequately to make out a man in a helmet standing by the door, speaking urgently with Bruce. 

Daddy was trying to talk to him, probably some stupid lie about everything being fine, but Bucky couldn’t take his eyes off of the stranger. Everything seemed to be sliding a little to the left, and the second he so much as twitched the whole world swung in a great, dizzy spiral, but he didn’t  _ need  _ to see.

He was off the bed quicker than Daddy was able to catch him, straps shredding under metal fingers as he charged at the stranger with an inarticulate wail. There was the impression of movement; likely a shocked reaction from Daddy, because what little of the stranger’s expression he could see looked resigned rather than terrified. It was all going to change, though, because Bucky wasn’t going to be taken alive. He wouldn’t let them take him back to the chair! 

Unfortunately, Bucky’s sense of equilibrium was more upset than he had initially realised, because he stumbled almost as soon as his feet were under him. His head swirled, sending his vision into a queasy blur and his knees to water. Bucky was on the floor before he even registered himself falling, shocked into inaction for long enough that Daddy was on him by the time he’d caught up with what had happened. 

“Bucky, Bucky, it’s okay, I’ve got you. You don’t need to be scared. He’s just a firefighter. They have to be here when the jet lands. It’s not a problem. He won’t hurt you.”  Bucky wasn’t at all sure about that, but he’d hit the floor with enough force to send his head ringing and the broken sobs that had paused for a moment when he launched himself at the stranger were back in full force now. 

He was in Daddy’s lap, he realised dazedly, hauled halfway up with both of Daddy’s arms braced around his chest. It wasn’t a very comfortable position; his back was bent at a funny angle and he was all too aware of the chafe of wet jeans against his thighs, but he didn’t have the strength left to fight it. 

“Can you try for me, lamb? Can you try not to fight this? For me? For Daddy? Can you do that?” 

Bucky didn’t know if he could do it. He was cold, scared and more than anything he wanted to go home, but with his sight fragmented and no idea where he actually  _ was _ , he was powerless to fight it. He moaned, a low, miserable sound, and let his head flop back against Daddy’s shoulder. The movement made one of the bright spotlights above them sear a line across his vision; Bucky groaned and tucked his head a little further in against Daddy’s neck. 

Daddy seemed to understand that Bucky didn’t have the words to answer him, because he just gripped a little tighter for a second before shifting the both of them so he could get Bucky up into his arms. Bucky wanted to cling to him, but his arms and legs were shaking with a mixture of lingering panic and the inevitable adrenaline crash; he felt like wet toilet paper. 

“That’s right. I’ve got you. We’re fine. Nearly there now. I’m going to put you down on the stretcher, just for a little while, so we can get into the ER. Just relax. I’m still here.” Daddy sounded frightened, which wasn’t very reassuring, but Bucky didn’t have any fight left in him. He allowed himself to be put down on some sort of trolley. Being flat on his back made him antsy; he fretted, hands fisting, before there was a soft click and the entire head end suddenly yanked upwards. 

Bucky yelped, flailing for something to grip onto and finding that he was caged in by twin sets of metal bars, before Daddy’s hands were back on his, keeping him steady. “No, no, don’t panic. We’re just sitting you up a bit. Is that better?” 

Bucky wasn’t sure if it was better or not. He didn’t like being flat on his back, certainly, but sitting up made him feel like his head was slithering away from the rest of him. In the end, it proved to be a rhetorical question anyway, because seconds later he was bound down tight in another set of straps and the whole stretcher was moving into the sunlight. 

Even with Daddy’s hands wrapped around both of his, the combination of blinding light and movement had Bucky scrabbling for purchase, afraid that he was going to roll away. Of course, nothing of the sort happened; Daddy had a firm grip on him, and whoever was pushing the trolley clearly knew what they were doing. It didn’t make it any easier to bear, though. 

It was actually a relief when they entered the building, despite the massive upsurge in noise. Suddenly, there were distractions coming at him from every angle; what felt like hundreds of people moving about, strange, astringent smells and raised voices coming from all directions. Somewhere not too far away, a woman was screaming like she was being murdered, the sound hideously recognisable even as Bucky slammed his hands over his ears in an attempt to block it all out.

By the time he dared lower his hands, everything had stopped moving. The lights were still searingly bright, so he didn’t open his eyes, but the noise had been muted behind what was likely a heavy set of doors. Daddy was still there, muttering reassurances under his breath, and Bucky gave his hand a shaky pat. 

Not too far away, two strangers and Bruce were talking, their conversation registering briefly as someone said his name. “-James Barnes: augmented human. Past medical history is convoluted, but relevant issues are seizures and complex mental health problems- suffers from PTSD and-” 

“Hey Bucky, they’re just going to take your blood pressure.” Daddy’s voice drew him away from the voices, but despite the warning Bucky still flinched violently when someone touched his flesh arm. His eyes snapped open, giving him a distorted view of blue curtains and a dark skinned man in scrubs before a flare of nausea forced him to close them again. 

The fingers came back, undeterred by Bucky’s reluctance, and moments later a stiff cuff that smelled of plastic and rubbing alcohol had been velcroed shut around his upper arm. He tried to tug himself loose, unhappy at the intrusion, but Daddy kept him still with a quelling hand. Bucky subsided, more because shifting made him feel sick than any real agreement with what was being done to him, and got something snapped onto the top of his left ear for his trouble. 

With the cuff starting to constrict and Daddy’s hand holding him steady, the most Bucky could do was duck his head to the side and rub his ear on his shoulder. It was enough to dislodge whatever probe had been positioned there, but apparently only for a moment; in less than ten seconds it had been resited on his other ear, this time with a hand cupped on the side of his head to stop him flicking it back off again. 

“No, don’t do that. He just wants to take some readings, see how you’re doing. It’s not going to hurt. Just try not to move.” Bucky wanted to tell Daddy that it was easier said than done; something awful and shrill had started bleating above his head, an urgent triple bleep alongside a rapid racing that seemed to echo his heart rate. The cuff, meanwhile, had constricted to the point where his entire arm felt hot and throbbing. 

“James? James, can you open your eyes for me?” The male voice was unfamiliar; probably the nurse. Bucky didn’t want to look at him, but not doing as he was told was naughty, and Daddy might be cross… he cracked open an eye, wary, and got the hazy impression of the same dark skinned face he had spotted before. He blinked; the light hurt, but the flashes were starting to fade. 

Of course, that was when the nurse pulled out a little torch and shone it straight into his eyes. Bucky jerked back unhappily and slammed his eyes tight shut, refusing to open them again despite both Daddy and the nurse pleading with him to let them look. Bucky just shook his head, which started up a dull throb behind his left eye, and pulled his metal arm up to guard his face. 

Eventually, they seemed to get the message that Bucky wasn’t letting them blind him, because the stretcher was tilted backwards a fraction and Daddy went back to stroking his hair. “Okay, Bucky, okay,” he whispered, mouth pressed close against the side of Bucky’s head despite how disgusting it probably was, smeared with blood and sweat. “No more of that. Just try to settle. You’re heart’s racing.” 

Bucky was intimately aware of that fact already. He could feel his pulse all the way up to the top of his head; hummingbird fast in a way that made it feel difficult to get a good deep breath. Not too far away the nurse was talking to someone about his blood pressure, Bucky tried not to listen. 

“Alright now sweetheart, I just need to take a little bit of blood.” That was someone else, someone new, and Bucky didn’t like what she was saying one bit. He wasn’t supposed to let anyone get hold of his blood. It was dangerous. Though at the present he couldn’t actually remember why that was the case. He peered out from between his fingers, vision clearer still despite everything looking a little unreal, just in time to see a tray full of needles being pushed towards him. 

That wasn’t happening. There were far too many needles, surrounded by what felt like hundreds of little clear bottles designed to steal his blood. Nobody was allowed to take his blood from him! Bucky was very nearly off of the trolley again, but Daddy was ready for him this time, catching him before he could get over the rails and onto the floor. The nurses both jumped in to help, and for a confusing moment Bucky was swamped by a muddle of voices and what felt like a whole army of hands on his body. 

He shrieked, lashing out left and right in an attempt to get them all off of him, almost certainly catching someone with his knee as he flailed, but there were too many of them and they were  _ crushing him _ and- 

“Oh, Bucky, hi!” 

It was Maggie. Utterly derailed for a moment, Bucky twisted his head around a little to check, half convinced that he was imagining things, but no, there she was, head stuck around the curtain as though it was the most normal thing in the world. He blinked at her, utterly confused.

“Tony called me and said you weren’t feeling very well, so I thought I’d come to help. It’s always nice to see a friendly face, right?” Maggie was already working her way over to them, nudging the other nurses aside with the sort of confidence that Bucky associated with practice. She looked different from the last few times Bucky had seen her, and it took him a moment to realise that she wasn’t wearing her uniform. It was odd; he’d sort of started to imagine she lived in it. 

That would be silly, of course, not to mention unhygienic. But despite being dressed in a long sleeved blouse and jeans, her simple blue hijab replaced with something more elaborate in purple, she had the same steady manner as before. She moved like she was supposed to be there. The lanyard with bears that had first caught his interest was poked into the pocket of her jeans, he noticed. 

“Oh, and Bucky Bear too. I wondered where he’d wandered off to.” It wasn’t very graceful, the way Maggie stooped down to collect Bucky Bear from where he’d fallen on the floor, but she held him carefully as she moved to stand at Bucky’s side. “You know… I don’t think he’s feeling very well either. Is that why you’re getting so upset, because your friend isn’t well?”  

Bucky hadn’t really thought about that, but once it had been drawn to his attention, it made an awful lot of sense. Bucky Bear had been uncharacteristically quiet, and he wasn’t growling even though he’d been dropped on the floor and nearly stepped on by a strange nurse. 

“He has a Bear Headache.” It was the first thing he’d managed to say in a while, and the words came out sounding strange. His mouth felt dry and full of saliva all at once. “It’s bad.” 

“It sounds it.” Maggie hooked a little stool with her spare hand, rolling it over so that she could sit at Bucky’s side with Bucky Bear spread out on her lap. It was a bit of an uneven surface because her leg didn’t bend quite the right way, and she frowned for a moment before shoving off and letting the chair coast her over to somewhere behind Bucky’s head. When she came back, Bucky Bear had been laid out carefully on what was probably an instrument tray. 

“Hmm.” Maggie had got a stethoscope from somewhere, and she used it to listen to Bucky Bear’s stuffing for a moment, “That’s interesting. Can I listen to yours too?” Bucky wasn’t sure that was such a good idea, but Maggie was his friend, and she was trying to make Bucky Bear better… He nodded, fingers curling tightly around his Daddy’s just in case it hurt. 

It didn’t. Maggie just pressed the cool end of the stethoscope on a few different places; his chest, back, and tummy, before putting it away again and offering him a smile. “You know, Bucky, I think you might both have the same Bear Headache.” 

Bucky didn’t think that people could get those, but it also made some sort of sense. He was feeling awful, and Bucky Bear definitely wasn’t his usual self, so maybe Bear Headaches really were contagious. “Can you fix it?” he asked. It was getting harder to talk, as with every passing heartbeat the pain in his head seemed to ratchet up a little higher, but he  _ needed  _ to know that someone could make Bucky Bear better. 

“I think I can. He’s going to have to be brave, though, and have some medicine.” Maggie’s hands were gentle as she took hold of Bucky Bear’s paws. “Bucky Bear, do you think you can show us all how brave you are, and let me help get you better?” 

It was very possible that Maggie spoke bear, because she seemed to be listening intently for whatever Bucky Bear had to say on the matter. It wasn’t much; Bucky Bear’s Bear Headache was making him tired and cranky, but he huffed something about being the bravest bear there was, which wasn’t actually a no. Bucky relayed this to Maggie, just in case her bear was rusty. 

Maggie smiled, Bucky Bear’s paws still caught between her fingers. “That’s fantastic. Can you hold him for me for a minute, so I can get everything I need ready?” 

Bucky nodded, reaching out to accept Bucky Bear and the tray. His hands were shaking, but Daddy helped him steady everything, and by the time they’d both told Bucky Bear that everything was going to be alright, Maggie was back. Bucky couldn’t see what she had with her because it was all tucked under a bright blue cloth, but he assumed it was the medicine they’d need. 

“There we go, all ready now.” Maggie put the covered tray on the side, then scooted close enough to Bucky’s stretcher to let the side down. She peered at Bucky Bear. “Hello, Bucky Bear, it’s Maggie again. I’m the nurse, remember? I need to put a little tube in your paw, if that’s okay, so I can give you some medicine.” 

Bucky Bear wasn’t keen on the idea, but Bucky held his paw. He needed Bucky Bear to get better and be able to protect him again. He glanced down at Maggie, who was waiting patiently for Bucky Bear’s decision. “He says you can do it… but just because he needs to get better.” The Bearvengers needed their leader, after all. They must all be so worried… 

“Well, that’s fantastic. I knew you were a brave bear.” Maggie put some gloves on, then took a sachet of something from under the blue cloth. When she opened it up, a thick white cream oozed out onto her fingers. “Still, I have some magic cream here, which will stop it hurting.” She applied a tiny dab to the back of Bucky Bear’s paw. “Bucky, do you want to try some?” 

Bucky Bear didn’t like the texture of the magic cream, but it wasn’t causing him any problems. After a moment’s thought, Bucky extended his own hand and let Maggie empty the rest of the cream there. It was cold, and slightly tingly. Maggie covered it up with a clear dressing from her tray, and Bucky wasted a moment poking it and watching the way the cream squished. 

“Daddy?” He turned his head, suddenly uncertain, but Daddy was still there. He even looked a bit less upset than he had before, which helped Bucky calm down a little. 

Daddy smiled. “Hey, buddy. You’re both being so brave. I’m so proud of you.” Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done that was worthy of praise; there was a bruise starting on Daddy’s left temple that made him feel sick to his stomach because he might have caused it. Daddy didn’t seem to care though, he just pulled Bucky a little tighter against his side and pressed a kiss to his hair. “You’re doing so well.” 

“He’s right, you know. You’re doing great.” Maggie was fiddling about under her blue sheet, but she glanced up with a small smile all the same. Bucky could see the dark skinned nurse, who had moved all the way back to the place where the curtain opened, was smiling too. “I think Bucky Bear is just about ready now, don’t you?” 

“I think so.” Daddy reached an arm across Bucky’s shoulder to hold Bucky Bear’s paw. 

Maggie gently took the other paw, the one with the magic cream on it. “Okay now, Bucky Bear, close your eyes and count to ten for me.” 

Bucky Bear was nervous, even though he was pretending not to be, but he was a soldier, and didn’t let his fear get the better of him. He closed his eyes, and Daddy started counting with him. By the time they were at three, Maggie had a little something in her hands. By seven, she had slotted it gently into Bucky Bear’s fur right over where the magic cream was. By ten, there was a dressing over the top of it all. 

“There we go! He was so brave.” Maggie had found a bandage from somewhere, and was efficiently wrapping Bucky Bear’s paw for him. Bucky could just see a little pink cap sticking out once she was done. Bucky Bear was scowling, but he hadn’t bitten any of Maggie’s fingers off, so it couldn’t have been that bad. 

“Can you fix him now?” Bucky’s head was pounding. He just wanted everything to be okay so they could go home. 

Maggie nodded. “I can start working on it. But we need to make you better too, remember. You need to be better to look after Bucky Bear.” 

That sounded reasonable. Bucky didn’t want to feel awful. “Can you do that?” He didn’t want to be grabbed by anyone, or have a million nasty needles stuck in him. “Will it hurt?” His head was starting to hurt so badly, he didn’t think he could take anything else on top. 

“That’s what the magic cream is for. I just need to do exactly the same as I did for Bucky Bear, and we’ll be able to give you something that will make you both feel better. It won’t take very long at all.” 

“Just a count of ten.” Daddy gave Bucky’s shoulder a squeeze. “Can you close your eyes and count to ten with me?” 

Bucky wanted to say no. He was scared of what might happen, or that it would hurt, but Bucky Bear had already been so brave. Bucky didn’t want to look like a coward, so he nodded, clenching his eyes tight shut and crushing his face into his Daddy’s shoulder. One of Daddy’s arms came up to curl around the back of Bucky’s head, holding him steady. His other hand fixed itself around Bucky’s flesh wrist in a tight grip.  

“It’s going to be fine, Bucky. You’re being so brave.” Daddy’s voice was gentle. “Just focus on my voice.” Maggie was picking the dressing off of his hand; Bucky felt her wipe the area down with something cold and he shuddered. 

Small fingers, wrapped in gloves, gave his fingers a squeeze. “That’s right, Bucky. You’re so brave. Start to count now, okay? Count slowly to ten with your Dad.” 

Daddy started to count, which distracted Bucky from whatever Maggie was doing to his hand. He tried to match his voice with Daddy’s, getting the numbers out at the same time. He stumbled on four, because something nipped at him, and he would have flinched if Daddy’s grip hadn’t been so firm. Before he had worked out how to pull himself free, they were onto five and he had to keep counting. 

Bucky reached ten without realising it, and nearly went on to eleven before he realised whatever Maggie was doing seemed to have finished. He opened an eye, wary, to find he had the same sort of bandage on his hand that Bucky Bear had, with a little pink port poking out of the top. Maggie, meanwhile, was in the process of tucking what looked suspiciously like a syringe full of blood behind her back. Before Bucky was able to get a good look at it, though, the dark skinned nurse had stepped forwards and taken it away. 

“That was amazing, Bucky, you did so well!” Bucky wasn’t sure exactly what he had done, but it had exhausted him. Instead of trying to formulate an answer, he shut his eyes and let Daddy’s praise wash over him like a wave. It didn’t quite make him feel safe, he was too anxious for that, but it helped. 

Maggie had wheeled herself close to his head, when Bucky opened his eyes again, and was looking at him with quiet concern. “Can you tell me how you and Bucky Bear are feeling, do you think?” she asked. “Once I know how you’re both doing, I can get some medicine and start making this better.” 

“Head hurts.” Maggie was nice, she was his friend, but Bucky didn’t feel very well. He didn’t really want to talk to anyone. “Tired.” 

Maggie seemed to understand, because she didn’t press him. She just nodded. “I can get something to help with your headaches. What about your eyes, how are they feeling?” 

Bucky wasn’t actually sure. Everything looked very strange, but the worst of the sparkles had cleared away. His eyes  _ felt  _ weird, though, like they were too big for their sockets and had been jammed in there anyway. He shrugged.

“That’s okay, you’re doing great.” Maggie reached up, then, and took the elaborate butterfly shaped pin from her hijab. She offered it to Bucky. “Can you hold this for me for a second, I don’t want to lose it?” 

It was a pretty pin, coated with something that made it look like the inside of an oyster shell. Bucky took it very gently, scared that he’d break it. It had looked big in Maggie’s small brown hand, but now Bucky had it, it seemed impossibly fragile. “Don’t want to break it.” 

“It’s okay, I trust you. It’s nice though, isn’t it?” 

Bucky nodded. “I like the colours.” He couldn’t look at it for too long without his eyes hurting, but it was nice. He wondered why he’d never seen Maggie with something so nice before. Maybe she worried about it getting lost or broken while she was working.

He heard her chuckle a little, and a creak as she stood up from the stool. “You’re right, it does have nice colours. I’m going to go and get you that medicine now. You just stay right there with Daddy until I come back, okay?” 

There was a not insignificant part of Bucky that wanted to reach out and grab her; stop her from leaving. They’d somehow managed to lose Bruce and Tony in the chaos, so the number of friendly faces had drastically decreased. Bucky didn’t want to let Maggie out of his sight. But she seemed perfectly at home in the emergency room, and she  _ had _ promised to bring back medicine. 

He let Maggie go, breathing out a shaky sigh as she vanished behind the curtain and into the uncertainty beyond. He really hoped she would come back soon with something to make him feel better. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has kudos'd or commented! It's amazing to see what you all think of the little castle I've built in Lauralot's sandbox. :) I love to hear from you all.


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